Diary of an Unsmug Married (6 page)

‘I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry,’ she says.

It turns out that she doesn’t mean Greg, but Mr Beales, though I can’t believe that she thinks
he’s
rude. He’s a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects – and doesn’t she realise that she wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for those ‘nasty constituents’ anyway?

‘Those people are for you and Greg to deal with,’ she says. ‘I have Andrew’s speeches to write, as well as important research to do.’

‘Carlotta, Andrew’s a backbencher, for God’s sake, and no one in the Commons ever listens to a word he says,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t really need a researcher, let alone one who writes speeches. Or he
wouldn’t
, if he’d shut up occasionally. He could easily manage with just Marie-Louise in London, doing his diary.’

This doesn’t go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she’s so good at.

Sighing’s one of the few things she
is
good at, now I come to think of it – the value of Andrew’s London-based staff being mainly decorative as far as anyone can tell. And I do wish both she and Marie-Louise would use pseudonyms when they talk to constituents. At least that would stop the usual suspects moaning that The Boss only employs ‘foreigners’ in his Westminster office. He doesn’t, though he
does
insist on long legs and an appearance which won’t embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club. (It may be a coincidence, but I’ve just realised that neither Greg nor I have ever been invited
there
.)

I probably shouldn’t have mentioned this inexplicable oversight to Greg, as he’s already furious with Carlotta, not just because she agreed to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment, but also because she apparently claimed to be in charge of
all
Andrew’s staff while doing so. Now Greg’s even more determined to get his own back, to teach Carlotta to know her place in what he calls ‘the complex hierarchy caused by Andrew’s anarchic staffing arrangements’.

‘What do you mean, “complex hierarchy”?’ I say. ‘It’s simple: Carlotta’s in charge in London – of herself and Marie-Louise. I’m in charge in Lichford. Of you and me. No one’s in overall control.’

‘Just like the Coalition,’ says Greg, ‘but that’s not what I mean and, anyway, you’re only nominally in charge of me. Whoever is
Goldenballs
is really the person in charge, and – as we both know –
that
title can change hands at a moment’s notice. You may be Andrew’s favourite at the moment, Mol, but you know the good times can’t last forever.’

On that chilling note, Greg decides that now is the perfect time to phone the Westminster office – while both girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House. Then he leaves twenty-five ‘messages’ on their answer-phone.

These involve little more than bouts of heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really,
really
hope Greg remembered to press 141
^fn2
before dialling each time.

‘Very satisfying,’ he says, when he’s finished. ‘That’ll teach Carlotta to think she’s in charge of me. I suppose we’d better turn
our
answer-phone off now.’

Big mistake. The first call is from Miss Chambers, complaining that the police aren’t taking her latest incident report seriously and are trying to imply that she ‘should stop making enemies’.

She goes on to say that she has never upset
anyone
,
which is so delusional as to be almost funny – until she asks ‘what kind of madman’ would post dog poo through her letter-box? I don’t tell her that I am sitting in the office with
exactly
such a man.

I know you can lie by omission, but it doesn’t feel as bad as the proper out-and-out kind of lying, does it? And, anyway, Miss C deserves it – though I’m not quite sure that Max does too.

I still haven’t got round to telling him about Johnny Hunter, though I don’t know why, other than I keep forgetting to. But now, I’m not at all sure that I should – not after reading the email that Johnny sends me tonight. I have a very odd feeling he may be
flirting
with me.

He’s finally sent me a photograph of himself, too, but that’s a bit of a disappointment. He’s definitely
not
the dark-haired, blue-eyed one from the school bus but (just my luck) the mousy paper-boy. He’s sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, looking disturbingly like President Putin; though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it’s quite a good idea to look like someone who’s well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.

Even if he doesn’t, my life still seems horribly pedestrian in comparison to his. (Johnny’s, I mean,
not
the President’s, though I suppose that both would apply.) He seems to be on a plane almost as often as he is on land; and says that he’s working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five.

I haven’t even decided what I want to do when I grow up yet, and my pension’s going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA’s making The Boss pay for it.

On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer – probably for Annoying Ellen, if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won’t even get half of
his
lousy pension, and will have to work until I drop (or The Boss does – whichever comes first).

At that point, I’ll probably have to opt for some DIY euthanasia when I can’t face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket and wearing an incontinence pad.

It’s quite nice to have an
International
Director of a Global Oil Company
flirting with me in the meantime, though. It makes a change – though I do wish I could recall what the
hell
we did behind the Science block.

FRIDAY, 4 JUNE

Oh God, I
hate
Fridays. I bet other people love them, but then they don’t work for an MP, do they? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to designate Friday as ‘spending time in your constituency day’ ought to be shot. Several times, if possible.

I’m on the phone to DEFRA
^fn3
this morning when The Boss arrives, dumps his briefcase on my desk and opens it. A crumpled shirt and five pairs of obviously dirty Y-fronts fall out. He fishes around for a folder, and then buggers off to do an interview, leaving me staring at skid marks. I have a degree, for God’s sake!

It takes me the rest of the morning to get over the shock, and I still can’t face eating my lunch, though Andrew kindly saves me the bother upon his return. He finishes my sandwich just in time for today’s surgery – which is attended by the usual collection of total nutters, interspersed with the odd sane person with a really serious problem.

I’m disturbed by yet another case where a middle-aged woman has apparently died unnecessarily while a patient at the local hospital. From
dehydration.
That’s the fifth or sixth case in the last three months, so I’m getting a bit worried about what’s going on now. I know that nurses have degrees these days (like me, not that mine does me any good), but lots of people don’t, and most of
them
can manage to remember to give their children (or pets) enough to drink. It’s not exactly rocket science, after all.

Anyway, talking of pets, The Boss doesn’t seem half as exercised by people dying of thirst as he does about the ban on docking the tails of some pedigree dogs. This probably has less to do with a fondness for canine mutilation than with the fact that the constituent in favour of it turns out to be a reasonably attractive woman in her late forties.

She flirts outrageously with The Boss, who flirts outrageously back, and – before I can get a word in edgeways – he’s agreed to consider bringing a Private Member’s Bill to reinstate docking, and she leaves in a presumably hormonal tizz. If she had a tail, I’m sure she’d be wagging it, and Andrew’s looking pretty perky, too.

In fact, he’s still flushed with success when I show the next constituent in: Mr Beales, yet again – though Andrew greets him as if he were a long-lost friend. Why the
hell
does The Boss insist on doing that? The usual suspects need
no
encouragement.

Grinning like an idiot, Mr Beales pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, then passes it to The Boss, completely ignoring my outstretched hand. ‘If you could just sign that, Andrew, then I’ll be on my way,’ he says.

Since when does Mr Beales call The Boss
Andrew
? Not that it seems to bother anyone but me. Andrew just smiles, and flourishes his pen.

‘At least
read
it first!’ I say – sotto voce – or at least that’s my intention, but Big Ears Beales hears me anyway. He pushes his double-barred paedophile glasses to the end of his nose, and peers at me over the top. His eyes are unnervingly cold.

‘It’s just my shotgun licence application,’ he says. ‘Your Boss
knows
me, after all.’

‘Indeed he does,’ I say. ‘That was rather my point. Andrew, are you
sure
you don’t want to wait and think about this first?’

The Boss notices my expression – which Greg says is the one that makes me look like a member of the Infected in the film
28 Days Later
– and finally reacts.

‘Ah, Edmund,’ he says. ‘Molly’s right, you know—’

‘Thank God for that,’ I say, under my breath, but then Andrew carries on where he left off:

‘She’s forgotten to type up that reference for the court. Tell you what, she can go and do that now, and I’ll sign this while you wait.’

Of such incidents are armed serial killers made. I give up, I really do.

SATURDAY, 5 JUNE

Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a new girlfriend with him. He says that he met her via
Guardian
Soulmates and that he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know ‘
some
married people’. She’s six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really.
Nothing
.

After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can’t face it – the idea of spending the whole evening with a woman who’s taken a vow of silence is far too much for me, so I claim that I have an urgent report to write for work and send Max off to entertain the lovers by himself.

He’s
much
more tolerant than me, anyway, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend’s height. I already have a crick in my neck.

As soon as they shut the front door behind them, I curl up in front of the television with the bottle of wine left over from dinner, on the basis that alcohol is a muscle-relaxant.

After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece.

They’re all roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed – so I wait until they’ve gone upstairs, then ask Max, ‘How did it go?’

‘Never been so bored in my life,’ he says.

‘Did she speak at all?’ I say. They’ve been gone for four hours, after all …

‘Well, she told a few rude jokes, and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your dad,’ says Max.

‘Oh God, that’s
it!’
I say. It’s all become crystal clear to me now, if not to Max.

‘What’s it?’ he says or, rather, ‘Whasht-it?’

‘What Sam sees in her,’ I say. ‘She shares his
interests
.’

‘Too true,’ Max says, then passes out attractively on the couch.

I wait until
he
starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to
some
sex tonight, I suppose – though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn’t bring any rugby moves into the bedroom. That spare bed has a wobbly headboard.

SUNDAY, 6 JUNE

My toes have suddenly gone all funny, like my mother’s: white, wrinkly slugs attached to my feet.
Repulsive
. I had no idea that was due to age but, now that I know that slug toes aren’t just a peculiarity specific to Mum, I suppose sandal-wearing’s well and truly out of the window.

Is there
no
end
to the parts of your body you have to keep covered, once you pass a certain birthday? Whole chunks of your anatomy consigned to obscurity overnight: the tops of your arms, any leg above the knee – not to mention the baggy knees themselves. And the same goes for wrinkly necks, ageing hands and, now, for bloody toes as well.

I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka. At least that would cover everything in one fell swoop, whereas, if you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you’d look a right twit: gloves; an artfully draped scarf or a huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights), and long-sleeved tops, segueing neatly into the aforementioned gloves. Soon I’ll need a hat to obscure the bald patch, or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.

And wearing trousers will be out, too: as Mum says that, one day when you’re least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide, just like that. Talk about something to look forward to.

God knows what Johnny would think if he ever laid eyes on me – which is all the more bothersome a thought since he started emailing me so much more often. He says talking to me ‘puts a smile on his face’ and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose anyone working for an oil company would be glad of a distraction from the horror of the Deepwater blowout
^fn4
at the moment – but it’s flattering, all the same.

I do wish Johnny wouldn’t keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can’t remember what it was, but he says that he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it’ll turn out to be even more embarrassing than my toes, if I can ever find the diary where I wrote it down.